


Sharing Skin

by OneEyedDestroyer



Series: Beautiful, Languid, and Filthy-Gorgeous [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Bath, Casual Cozy Moments, Debauchery, Decadence, Drinking, Emotional Growth, Fantasy Orgy Draft, Intimacy, Light Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Queerplatonic Relationships, Slice of Life, Smoking, Tacos, quasiplatonic life partners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-03-14 22:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13600053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneEyedDestroyer/pseuds/OneEyedDestroyer
Summary: “We deserve a break!” is code for ‘Let's grab some wine, hop in a bath, and shut the rest of the world out for while’. Their regular ritual, steeped in excess and escapism with just the right touch of introspection. Their baths are the closest thing they have to home.





	1. What We Deserve

**Author's Note:**

> Update: We won the 2018 Trials, guys! I can’t believe it. Thank you so much to everyone who read and voted for me and alipeeps! <3 
> 
> My entry for the 2018 Trials. Team TwinkleTwinkleLittleLamprey. Shout out to @alipeeps for creating gorgeous art and being a great teammate! You’re a rock star! 
> 
> It should be noted that chapters 1 and 6 were previous published and their combined word count of 2873 words does not count toward my entry for the Trials. The Welters Team said we could submit a continuation of an existing work as long as we understood the previously posted bits wouldn’t count and only the new work would be considered for the submission. 
> 
> This fic is a chronological series of vignettes exploring the intimacy between Eliot and Margo. We explore a wide range of circumstances and emotions through the simple lens of a single ritualistic act. The timeline spans from a nonspecific pre-canon time before Q arrives at Brakebills and goes almost all the way through season three, responding to a few key moments in the canon. 
> 
> This fic is my baby, guys. This is the first idea I ever had for our fandom and it has come a long way from the tiny little 700 word oneshot it was supposed to be. (Honestly it has come a long way from when I wrote chapter 1) I’m truly proud of the work I’ve done on this piece. 
> 
> Super Huge Thanks™️ to my ever fabulous and sharp Machete Squad ([ **Rae** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/highestkingbambi) and [ **Vivi** ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivi_Marius)) for cheering me on and really whipping this bad boy into shape. I wouldn’t be half the writer I am without either of you. Rae also made a super cute cover image for this fic that features at the top of chapter one. Double huge thanks to Vivi for being my sounding board and encouraging me to write and publish this in the first place. This fic truly wouldn’t exist without her. We deserve bubbles on our skin. ;) 
> 
> Since I’m posting the entire thing all a time once, I want to make it known that I greatly aappreciate anyone and everyone who is willing to comment chapter by chapter. I live for reactions as you read through the experience. 
> 
> Without further ado, here is Sharing Skin, I hope you enjoy.  
> -V

“We deserve a break, Margo!” Without waiting for a response, Eliot grabs her hand and starts to pull her off the couch and to her feet.

“We do, don’t we, El.”

They twirl and stumble through the nearly empty cottage, fingers intertwined. Laughter echoes off the walls as they swoop by the bar and grab two bottles of champagne—shattering a couple glasses as they go. Eliot briefly pauses to consider whether or not he gives a fuck, and Margo answers for him by continuing to pull them both upstairs while she laughs.

When they reach the doorway, Eliot releases Margo’s hand, takes a step back and dramatically lowers his head in a mock bow. He makes a broad gesture for her to pass through the door ahead of him. Gently, she places her hand atop his head and runs her fingers through his hair before stepping across the threshold.

Upon entering the room, Margo’s fingers twist intricately and the room fills with cool, flickering light. She’s always loved the way Eliot’s skin looks in blue.

“Nice touch, Bambi,” Eliot says as he uncorks the first bottle of wine and takes a drink. He offers her the bottle and watches as she brings it to her lips. He revels in the feeling of teaming up with her to block out the world. They are safe here; alone together.

Margo sets the bottle down at the foot of the tub and steps out of her shoes. She takes a seat on the stone tub, legs hanging over the outer side, and delicately traces the silver handles with her fingers before finally turning. The first splash of water hitting the tub echoes as a soothing roar until it’s nearly full. The steam catches light and adds the perfect amount of drama to the ambiance.

Eliot’s fingers fold in on themselves and back out again. The temperature in the room comes down to the perfect chilliness to pair with the hot bath.

Eliot grabs the meeting of his waistcoat and undoes the buttons in a slow, rhythmic pattern; one index finger parting the fabric, the opposite thumb and index finger slipping the buttons through. Both hands swiftly slide down to the next button until they’ve all been undone. He shrugs the vest off his shoulders, folding it delicately over his knee. Margo grunts softly and pulls her top over her head, discarding it haphazardly across from her, her bra quickly follows suit. Eliot chuckles a bit and she meets his eyes with a smirk as she steps out of her skirt. She walks back over to the tub, takes a seat on the edge, and runs her fingers through the hot water.

Eliot looks in her direction and waits for her to be lost in her thoughts as she strokes the water. He unceremoniously pops the button on his pants, but makes sure to pull the zipper down slowly enough so the the crack of the metal teeth releasing each other pierces the silence. She looks up at him and tries not to be thrown off by his smirk waiting for her. The sound of Eliot’s pants coming undone always catches Margo’s attention.

“Rude.”

“What?” He is the only person who knows how to push her buttons, and he takes so much pleasure in his mastery. She slips into the tub with a light splash. Once his pants are folded and neatly tucked away, Eliot rolls his eyes at all her clothes scattered on the floor.

“Are you going to sit there being proud of yourself, or are you going to join me?”

Water spills out onto the floor as Margo makes space in the bath for Eliot. He steps in behind her and leaves room between his legs for her to settle in against him. Margo leans back into him and he brings his hands around her waist and pulls her closer. Burying his face into the familiar warm of her neck, he sighs and relaxes for the first time in days. His fingers trace lightly at her sides like they belong there. Slowly, he runs his hand across one of her arms and delicately strokes her hand. Everything is okay as long as they are sharing skin.

“You know what we deserve?” Eliot asks after a moment of simply being.

“What, Love?” Margo’s shoulders relax into Eliot as she starts to feel the tension leave her body.

“We deserve bubbles,” he makes a lazy gesture and the surface of the water begins to foam.

“I thought that was going to be a shitty attempt at asking me to share the champagne,” she says taking a sip. “You know how much I hate to share.”

“You don’t seem to mind sharing with me,” he says as he reaches over to grab a cigarette. “I’ve lost track of how many men we’ve had together.”

“That’s different; sharing boys with you adds more excitement to the experience. Sharing champagne just means I get less drunk.” Sip.

“Touché.” Eliot places the cigarette between his lips and snaps his fingers. A quick spark of flame catches the end as he inhales.

Eliot exhales smoke, and after a few more drags, offers the cigarette to Margo. She declines at first, but he wordlessly insists. His lips curl into a wicked smirk and his eyes glint as if to say you know you want to.

“You’re terrible for my complexion,” she says as she takes the cigarette from Eliot’s long fingers, her other hand safe in the warm water lightly stroking his leg.

“But so, so good for your pleasure,” he growls the words just enough to tease, and punctuates them with a firm grope. The hand that had been stroking his leg squeezes him in response.

Margo runs her wet hand through her hair, then brings the cigarette to her lips and inhales. She holds the smoke in her mouth for a second before she lets her lungs fill with the warmth. This much concentration on her breath slows her down, and all the bullshit of life and Brakebills falls away from her. Her head falls back and rests on Eliot’s shoulder as she exhales smoke, her free hand goes slack and plops back into the soapy water, making a sound that would’ve startled her if she wasn’t so relaxed.

Eliot takes the cigarette out of Margo’s hand and takes another drag. “Your ‘two cigarettes a year’ rule is stupid, and I hate to break it to you, but it’s barely March and you’ve already had five.”

“Hey! January was a rough time for me.” She grabs it back and drags quickly, laughing. “I don’t like change.” The pleasant dizziness starts to settle in and nothing much else matters to her beyond this bath, beyond their skin. “And you are a Master Temptress.”  
  
“Am I, Margo? Or are you just easy?”

Margo blows smoke into Eliot’s face, her eyes lit with a playfully icy warning. He gives her her favorite crooked smile, and slips his fingers between hers and knots them together. Their connected fingers, their shared skin is his favorite magic.


	2. Intertwined

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot and Margo reconnect after a fight the only way they know how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This bath started out as a Challenge™️ to write two characters without much dialogue, and has grown to be one of my favorite things I’ve written so far. I really try to explore these two with depth and character. *wink, nudge* So often we see them written as one dimensional hedonists and one liner machines, especially when written together. I hope I do them justice here. 
> 
> Another pre-canon bath for your nerves, loves. This one is set a few months after the first one. I doubt they even remember it.

The soft thrum of autumn rain against windows fills the cottage. The cool grey of sunlight trapped behind thick clouds leaves the common room looking somber and cold. Silence fills the space where laughter and  banter should be. They weren’t fighting, exactly, but things have been weird since last night. 

 

Eliot exhales sharply before taking a deep drink from his bottomless flask. His hair is messy and lopsided, but no one dares  to mention it. Margo’s arms are crossed tight over her chest, her fingers tapping rapidly at the inside of her elbow. Despite the uncomfortable tension between them, Margo’s legs rest in Eliot’s lap. Her bare foot has been slowly stroking against his thigh, though neither of them appear to have noticed until just now. Margo reaches over and slips the flask from Eliot’s fingers; he passes it without resistance. Margo takes a quick swig, the clanking of the flask echoing loudly through the room.

 

“Break. Deserve. Now,” she says, smacking the flask against his chest to return it. 

 

Without waiting for his response, she rises from the couch and starts to make her way upstairs. Eliot nods his tacit agreement and pushes himself to his feet. He catches up to Margo in two strides; she reaches her hands behind her,  a simple peace offering for a complicated situation. Acknowledging the weight of the gesture, Eliot laces his fingers into hers and allows her to lead him upstairs. When they reach the bathroom, Margo drops one of Eliot’s hands so she can open the door. A quick dance of her fingers around each other causes the candles lining the tub to ignite, one by one. The warm flickering illuminates the room with a soft glow. Something in the way the light catches Eliot’s face breaks Margo’s heart, and she reaches up to cup his chin, stretching onto her toes to be able to reach. Eliot’s face contorts in confusion. He is completely thrown by the softness of her touch, but it is most certainly welcome. 

 

Margo smooths her hands down Eliot’s neck and over his chest; the rough, woolen tweed of this waistcoat is exquisite,  but the dull greys of his outfit convey his true mood. She slides the buttons free with a delicate care matching the way he typically undresses. His face lights up in a strange mix of shock and appreciation; she doesn’t care much for delicacy, and he’s not sure he deserves it. As Margo works on the buttons, Eliot loosens his tie. Expecting her to unbutton his shirt, he cocks an eyebrow when her hand wanders instead into the pocket of his pants. A devious smirk spreads across her face, and he narrows his eyes in playful suspicion; it wouldn’t be the first time they fucked their frustrations out. Margo’s fingers wrap around what she is searching for and  she traces a delicate finger along the intricate filigree of his silver cigarette case before slipping it out his pocket  with a throaty laugh. Eliot rolls his eyes as he fails to stifle his own laughter. It feels so good to be laughing together. 

 

Taking the flask from his hand, Margo sets both it and the cigarettes on the edge of the tub before unbuttoning her blouse. Mirroring her movements, Eliot undoes his own shirt, carefully folding it before setting it aside. He grabs Margo’s blouse from her hands before she can toss it haphazardly across the room and neatly sets it aside with his own. Margo shimmies out of her slacks and sits on the edge of the tub. She turns the knob, letting the water run as Eliot continues to neatly fold and set aside his clothes.

 

Once the tub is full, Margo turns the knobs back to stop the faucet. She taps the edge of the tub to beckon Eliot over. He obliges her silent request and slides into the tub, letting his knees fall open to allow her room to slip between them. She follows him into the water facing him instead of their usual back to chest position. Eliot should be taken aback, but he has grown accustomed to her relentlessly tackling situations he would much prefer to hide from. He can feel her eyes on him, waiting without forcing it.  The thought of looking up at her right now is almost too much; he groans. The water moves beneath the surface and he feels her hand rest on his knee, he’s not sure if she’s trying to comfort him or hurry him along. He huffs  in resignation and wills himself to meet her gaze. He expects a challenge or frustration, but is met instead with concern. Concern for what he can’t be sure, but this is definitely going better than he feared. 

 

Grabbing the pack of cigarettes, Margo removes one and brings it her lips. Eliot cocks another curious eyebrow; she is full of surprises tonight. She snaps her fingers, producing a quick flame at the end of the cigarette as she inhales. He reaches his hand out for her to pass it along, and is surprised to see her take a deep drag. Her eyes fall closed as the warm smoke fills her lungs. She exhales; the smoke catches the candlelight as it falls from her lips. The dim lighting and smoke along the surface of the bath create an eerie ambiance. It’s not often Margo smokes, so she takes another drag, this time filling her mouth with thick smoke. She holds the smoke behind her lips before allowing them to fall open. The smoke swirls over her tongue before she inhales, drawing it up through her nose before blowing it back out through her mouth. Eliot scoffs dramatically at her display, but a smile tugs at his lips as he curls his fingers, beckoning her to pass it along. The hit of nicotine is almost too sweet to give up. Closing her eyes for a brief moment, she  wills herself to pass the cigarette into Eliot’s expectant hand. If  she doesn’t stop herself now, she’ll smoke the entire thing.

 

Bringing the cigarette to his lips, Eliot takes a deep drag and exhales, letting his head fall forward. He is so fucking tired. Margo slides forward enough so that his head can rest on her shoulder. Threading her fingers into his hair, she slowly scratches her fingernails against his scalp. She pulls the cigarette from his fingers and takes another quick drag—half heartedly convincing herself that it is more to keep it burning than anything else—as she continues to massage his scalp. 

 

Eliot sighs. The pressure of her fingertips is lifting a burden he long forgot he was carrying. The room grows dark, or maybe his eyes have drifted closed. He’s not sure, he just knows everything is hazy and her touch is magic. He starts to fall asleep and the weight of him plummets onto Margo. 

 

Unprepared for the sudden movement, she loses balance, falling back against the tub with a loud ‘thud’. Warm water splashes everywhere, jolting Eliot from his near slumber and extinguishing most of the candles. Margo plucks the cigarette from the bath water and tosses it aside—it is probably for the best anyway. 

 

Margo cups Eliot’s face, stroking his sideburns as she looks into his eyes, weary and bloodshot. Placing a tender kiss to his forehead, she pulls him into her, resting his head at her heart. She strokes his hair in hopes that he will fall back asleep. He needs it. Eliot groans as he tries to shed this shaky, heart pounding feeling. Apologies, forgiveness—he isn’t very good at either, and he has no idea which one he should be doing right now. The rhythmic  soothing of Margo’s hands bring him closer to relaxation at each stroke. Her heart lulls him deeper into slumber with its slow, metronomic beating. His arms wrap around her waist beneath the water and he tucks his knees up, settling them around her legs. He won’t admit it, but he would much rather be the one being held more often than not, and curses his height for robbing him of it .  He doesn’t have words to express how grateful he is for Margo in this moment. 

 

Eliot’s breathing has been so haggard and heavy that Margo hadn’t noticed that she has been holding her own. She exhales,  leaning back against the tub  slowly as to not rattle Eliot. Margo isn’t sure who is responsible for what anymore, and at this point, she doesn’t care; she just needs them in this together, whatever it is. She knows she should move them out of the tub, but she doubts either of them can manage it in their current state. Continuing to stroke Eliot’s hair, she hopes her apology and concern bleed through her skin in a way he can understand. She starts to wonder when they began to need each other, but exhaustion claims her before she can think too hard and she joins Eliot in sleep. 


	3. Winner’s Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events of Head to Head, Eliot and Margo hop into a bath to debrief. The lighthearted glee is a welcome relief to all the tension of the competition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a direct Follow Up™️ to Head to Head. It’s set the night after the events of Consolation. (I promise milk finish that soon. IRL shit has been wild, guys) It isn’t necessary to have read those fics to appreciate this chapter, but this chapter—and the summary of it included at the end of this note—does spoil the ending of HtH a bit. For those of you that haven’t read HtH, it’s about Eliot and Margo having an elaborate Blowjob competition in which Todd, Q, and Penny serve as some of their test subjects. Hilarity, smut, and drama ensue. Consolation is a follow up where Margo ties Quentin to Eliot’s bed as a bit of an apology and consolation gift for kicking his ass in public.

After a few days, the boisterous absurdity of the competition has faded to a languid calm that is incredibly boring in comparison. If it wasn’t for the occasional stray piece of glitter or confetti, it would be easy to write the whole thing off as a dream. Now that there is more furniture in the cottage than there are people, Eliot and Margo have resumed their conspicuous lounging by the windowsill, legs intertwined, with lazy arms draping around waists and fingers absentmindedly combing through hair. 

 

Margo releases a soft sigh at the feeling of Eliot’s fingers against her scalp. “You know what, El?” she asks as her eyes drift closed. Eliot stills his fingers and responds with an inquiring hum. “We deserve a break,” she says as her final consolation. The competition put a strain on the delicate balance between them, and she wants to make sure they’re okay after everything that has happened. Their baths are sacred, they respect each other far too deeply to bullshit through them. If Eliot is harboring any ill will, now is the time for him to make it clear.

 

“We absolutely do,” he says, pushing himself up from the windowsill. Margo slides out of his grasp as they rise to their feet. “Obviously we need champagne,” he says, already halfway to the wine cabinet. “Flutes or no? ”  he flutters his fingers as he gestures to the glassware. 

 

“Who are we trying to impress?” She asks, cocking an eyebrow. 

 

“I am done trying to impress people,”  Eliot sighs, running a perusing finger along each of the bottles. The pale cream labels against the dark glass of the reds don’t catch his attention tonight, though the elegantly scribed French on the labels are good enough to fool the average grad student into thinking they’re the real deal. Continuing to dance his fingers along his wine collection, the deep reds slowly become rich coral, before eventually hitting the green glass shielding the champagnes. The bottles range in size and quality, though most of his peers could care less. Tonight he and Margo are celebrating, so he grabs one of the good ones. 

 

A wicked smile spreads along Margo’s lips and she shoots him a playfully stern look. “You dirty fucking liar,” she says, pressing the bottle of champagne to his abdomen. “Speaking of impressive,” she says as Eliot slips the bottle out from beneath her fingers. “I have to grab something. Meet me upstairs?” He nods his response and she hurries up to her room. 

 

Turning the lamp on, she reaches for a basket of colorful soaps, melts, bath bombs, and bubble bars. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the light reflect off her new trophy. A proud smirk spreads across her face; she really fucking earned it. Turning to head to the bathroom, she quickly reconsiders and grabs the trophy with her free hand before finally stepping out of the room. 

 

When Margo enters the bathroom, Eliot is setting the bottle of champagne in a chiller on the side table. She sets the basket aside and stretches her arms far over her head, sighing audibly in a dramatic yawn. When Eliot turns to face her, she slowly sets the trophy down on the sink, wiping away invisible dust and polishing it with her elbow. 

 

Eliot rolls his eyes and stifles a laugh. “Seriously?” He asks, feigning disgust. 

 

“What?” She asks, playing dumb as she picks the trophy up and positions it on a small pedestal at the foot of the tub; she wants to make sure it’s in her line of sight while they enjoy their bath. Eliot laughs softly, shaking his head. 

 

Margo unclasps her necklace and hangs it off of the golden dildo trophy before stepping away from the tub. Eliot loosens his tie and pulls it slowly off his neck. He cocks an eyebrow at Margo and tosses his tie across the room with a smirk. It nearly misses the trophy but wraps itself around the shaft of the dildo with a little guidance from his mind. Margo stifles a laugh and pulls her blouse over her head, dropping it at her feet. Eliot unbuttons his own shirt and slides it off his shoulders, taking care to fold it neatly before tucking it away. Unzipping her skirt, Margo slips the garment off her legs, stepping out of it before walking it over to where her shirt is discarded. Eliot scoffs. Margo is almost offended, but as she turns, she catches sight of Eliot’s long fingers folding in on themselves and back out again. A bright, warm spotlight shines down on the trophy, catching the glass base at just the right angle to refract the light into a stunning seven part rainbow. 

 

“Much better,” he says with a smile as he pulls his belt out of the loops. 

 

Margo beams, a rare sight for most, but she’s so relieved to be on the same page again. “This is why I love you,” she says with a laugh. “You dramatic bitch.”

 

“If there isn’t a touch of drama, are you truly living?” Eliot asks, proudly eyeing his work. Stepping out of his pants, Eliot folds and tucks them away with the rest of his clothes before approaching the tub. 

 

Taking a seat on the edge of the tub, Eliot turns one of the knobs on the faucet. A gentle roar fills the room as hot water hits the dark stone of the tub. Margo grabs the basket of bath products and saunters over to Eliot. 

 

“Pick one,” she commands, presenting him with the basket. Eliot brings a hand to his chin as he carefully considers his options. He hums softly for dramatic effect and slowly hovers his left hand over the contents of the basket. After a moment of dawdling, he grabs a large disk of spiraled pink and white; with the same hand, he grabs a small, shimmery gold bar. Margo narrows her eyes at the last minute addition; she paid too goddamn much for Eliot to blow them both at once. 

 

“To pair with your stunning token of victory,” his voice pleading with her as his eyes well with crocodile tears. 

 

Margo rolls her eyes in an attempt to mask her delight. “I said one,” she scolds. 

 

Eliot reaches his free hand out to grab one of her, tugging her a little closer. “I know, Bambi, but I figured tonight is perfect to get a little decadent—break a few rules.” The pleading pout morphs into an evocative smirk that he knows will melt her. She holds his gaze, completely unamused, until his tongue slides across his bottom lip. The tiniest smile cracks her her facade; that boy is too fucking pretty for his own good. 

 

Satisfied with her reaction, Eliot releases her hand to turn the second knob. He brings his hands beneath the running faucet and begins to rub them together, slowly crushing the bath bars against each other as they dissolve beneath the running water. The scent of bright, tangy citrus, and ripe berries fills the air. The water begins to turn a rich, shimmery rose gold as Eliot continues to dissolve the bars between his fingers. Margo takes a seat on the opposite edge of the tub, dipping her feet into the hot water. She begins to kick as Eliot crumbles the last of the bars. The water is already silky smooth as it  slides around her feet. Thick, airy bubbles begin to spread across the surface with every agitation. Once the tub is nearly full, Eliot turns off the faucet. Hands covered in the glittery pink pigments of the bubble bars, Eliot runs his finger along Margo’s nose, leaving the hot pink pigment behind on her skin. She bites at the air in front of his finger in a playful response and she continues to kick up the bubbles. The frothy foam has grown well above the surface of the water, but Margo has no intentions of stopping just yet. Eliot slips into the tub with a content sigh and waits for Margo to be satisfied. Margo cackles with a reckless abandon that is a rare sight for even Eliot’s eyes as her continued kicking produces way more bubbles than they anticipated. Eliot grabs her legs once he has had enough. The bubbles are billowing out of the tub and onto the floor. 

 

“This is why I told you to pick  _ one _ ,” she says as she slips into the tub, facing Eliot, though the comically large mound of bubbles obscures her from his sight.

 

Eliot begins to move his fingers against each other, creating sharp geometric shapes. He quickly begins to incorporate his wrists into the movement, sliding one down the length of his other arm.  They snap sharply into form, his elbows moving opposite them in a spell sequence that is much longer and more involved than they typically use in the bath. The water begins to vibrate before they feel the tub pull away from their skin as it expands around them beneath the surface. The overflowing bubbles settle evenly around the now impossibly spacious tub interior. 

 

Margo raises an eyebrow and cocks her head slightly to the side. 

 

“A slight variation on Thibodeaux's Planar Compression,” Eliot answers before she has the chance to ask aloud. 

 

Margo nods her approval as she settles against Eliot’s chest. With the bubble situation under control, the soft, rosy gold water is visible where their bodies emerge from bubbles. As their movements still, the water shimmers with brilliance that could make the night sky jealous as the light catches individual flecks of glitter. 

 

“It looks like viniq,” Margo sighs wistfully, allowing her submerged hand to softly stroke Eliot’s thigh. 

 

“And yet I can guarantee that it tastes infinitely better,” he says, voice dripping with disgust. He nudges Margo forward with a soft tap against her leg. “On that note, how about we drink something that won’t make us regret having taste buds?” He suggests, casually reaching for the bottle next to him. “Pleasure without champagne is purely artificial.” Eliot recites the quote as though performing on stage in front of a packed house. 

 

Margo applauds accordingly, “Bravo, my love, Bravo!” 

 

Grabbing the bottle by the neck and holding the cork in place with the opposite hand, Eliot slowly twists the bottle. As he works the cork loose, his hand slips and the cork pops, flying across the bathroom. They hear the thud of it hitting the wall, but have absolutely no idea where it lands. They giggle as champagne spills into the tub.

 

Eliot groans, “I can’t remember the last time I fucked that up,” he says before licking the runoff from his fingers. 

 

Margo runs a soothing hand along his face before turning to settle back against him. “I’ve always wanted to bathe in champagne,” she offers, casually. 

 

“And you say  _ I’m _ dramatic!” 

 

Laughing, Eliot wraps an arm around Margo, pulling her closer. He passes her the bottle and drops his hands beneath the water, stroking soft circles along her hip. She sighs as she brings the champagne bottle to her lips. The light glinting off the trophy refracts a rainbow onto the bubbles; it’s beautiful. The moment is so perfect it’s easy to forget that only a few days ago they were fighting over that stupid thing. 

 

Eliot hums softly as though the exact same thoughts had just occurred to him. “I would say I never want to suck another dick in my life.”

 

“But we both know that’s not true!” Their unintended unison causes them in break into a fit of laughter, sloshing water enough to disturb the bubbles. 

 

“Looks like we’ll have to get a little more creative in the bedroom for a while,” Eliot says, taking the bottle back. 

 

Margo’s face twists into a grimace. “Speak for yourself, I’m always creative,” she snarks. 

 

Eliot laughs at her brash confidence. “Indeed you are, Bambi,” he takes a long sip from the champagne bottle. “And I am eternally grateful.” 

 

“For what?” she asks, snatching the bottle back; the quick movement sends bubbles flying into the air. “From the sound of it, not too much  _ came _ from my little present,” says, letting the innuendo rest heavily on her tongue. “Full offense, El, I know first hand that Coldwater isn’t that quiet.” As she takes a sip from the bottle, her eyes light up with a devious idea. “Wait, did you gag him? There better be video!” 

 

Eliot goes for the bottle. Margo tries to pull it out of his reach, but his arms are so long that it’s a lost cause. “No, I didn’t gag him, we were just being considerate.” He brings the bottle to his lips.

 

“Fuck considerate,” the intensity of Margo’s response causes Eliot to dribble a little champagne. They laugh; today has been a day for small mishaps. “I invested serious effort into that. I want to hear the payoff.” Eliot takes another small sip to make up for the loss. “You owe me a desperate Quentin begging beneath you as you fuck him so hard the skin slapping sets off the goddamn clapper in the next room,” Margo says, crossing her arms over her chest. 

 

Eliot doesn’t know what the fuck to do with her. “You can join us next time,” he offers, unable to stifle the laughter. “We promised him a threesome anyway,” he takes one more swig before passing the bottle back to Margo. 

 

Margo drains the rest of the champagne, turning the bottle all the way up to ensure she captures every drop. “Think he’ll let us gag him?” She can’t get the thought out of her head; Quentin Coldwater with his hands tied behind his back as Eliot places a ball gag into his mouth. She can almost hear the muffled sounds as Eliot slides into him, and she reaches to stroke Quentin’s cock. 

 

“Down, girl. We don’t want to scare him off,” he says, resting his chip atop her head.

 

“He let me tie him to your bed with the vague promise that he might get fucked that night,” she starts. “Trust me, a little silicone in his mouth is not going to scare him off.” 

 

Eliot considers her words, and shrugs. She’s got a point. They erupt into another fit of laughter without a care in the world for anything beyond these walls.


	4. Delusions, Major and Minor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot and Margo muse over a certain floppy haired someone in an unexpectedly melancholy bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set directly after the events of Mending, Major and Minor. These two idiots are really bad at Feelings™️. This is one of my favorites. I have always found something very melancholy to the connection between Eliot and Margo so this was a treat to write.

The room is warm and dimly lit. A trail of Margo’s haphazardly discarded clothes leads to the foot of the tub where Eliot’s neatly folded garments are carefully tucked away. Notes of ripe, juicy peach, and hint of honey fill the air. The bath water is a bright, creamy orange with a soft light glowing from beneath the surface. Their subtle movements create a shimmer as they  stir the water. 

 

“What does she know? We’re brilliant,” Margo snarks, settling back against Eliot’s chest. She grabs the peach slice resting on the lip of her champagne flute and takes a bite before dropping the other half into her drink. 

 

Absentmindedly stroking Margo’s knee beneath the water, Eliot takes a sip from his own glass and smiles. This is the best bellini he has ever made; one-hundred percent worth seducing that wine collector for the case of prosecco. “Utter genius. If this isn’t the very definition of ‘retreat’, I don’t know what is,” the sneer in his voice is barely masking his hurt feelings. “Exhausting,” he grumbles, echoing Genji’s words. 

 

“Fuck the old bat,” Margo says, smoothly. “You said it yourself, ‘what do we need her for?’” she says as if they haven’t been talking about it for the last few hours. 

 

Margo lightly strokes the water and hums as she considers her next choice. She brings her hands together, rolling her wrists over each other before stitching her fingers together in an intricate shape. A deliberate tap of the surface of the bath with her middle finger causes the water to turn pink beneath her touch. The color ripples out from the point of contact in concentric waves, quickly changing the entire bath. With the same finger, she traces a small sigil on the back of Eliot’s left hand to tie him into the spell. Eliot makes three quick taps along the surface of the bath. Orange, yellow and red diffuse into the water, the edges of Eliot’s colors are much more feathered and frayed than Margo’s. The colors swirls together, blending into beautiful gradients when they come into contact with each other and the pink hues from Margo. The result is somewhere between the light of a setting sun and an abstract painting. 

 

Margo shifts her hips beneath the water, more to rock the bathwater than for her own comfort. They watch the surface ripple around them, knees and feet become islands in an unnatural ocean as they poke above the surface. The slow swirling of color has them both lost in thought, quietly contemplating as they gaze softly at the stunning display. The soft sounds from sipping their drinks are the only thing breaking the silence. 

 

Right as Eliot begins to doze off, Margo releases a soft, yet heavy breath. “I get it,” she says softly, melting further into Eliot. Eliot responds with a questioning sound, struggling to keep his eyes open. “Why you like him,” she clarifies. Eliot considers playing dumb, he ‘likes’ a lot of guys, but they both know exactly who she is talking about. “He feels things, hopes for things, loves things. . .” she says without a trace of judgement in her voice.

 

Eliot’s eyes light up with a soft appreciation that he’s grateful Margo can’t see. He quietly nods his agreement, but can’t bring himself to further acknowledge the thought. The need to hide his true feelings is still too strong. “Ugh, ‘love’. What does that even  _ mean _ ?” He deflects with a blasé air and quickly drains the rest of his drink.

 

Margo clinks her glass against his and downs the rest of her drink as well. “Fuck if I know,” she says, fishing the peach slice from the glass with her fingers. “The closest I get are the lies my cunt tells to get me to fuck idiots.” She punctuates the quip by tossing the peach into her mouth. The bitterness in her laugh suggests she is aching to ignore something deeper. 

 

Eliot laughs as he wraps both arms around her waist; the movement further blends the colors together, they’re starting to turn a murky maroon. “Now that is a feeling I am well acquainted with,” he says. He lightly taps the surface of the water with his middle finger, a deep blue glow ripples out from his touch, washing away the previous colors. Margo taps a few sporadic flecks of pale blue and purple, the shimmer on the water makes the scene resemble the night sky. 

 

The sigh that leaves Eliot is more from the crushing defeat of this week than from the beauty of their bathwater, but he hopes it isn’t obvious. “On the one hand, I pity the guy for such naïveté,” he begins with a flippant flick of his wrist. “But on the other, I...” he trails off, unable to bring himself to say it. He looks around the room, suddenly desperate for a drink. Margo nods; the hint of awe in his voice isn’t lost on her. She laces her fingers between his, squeezing his hand. She mentally fills in the blanks with a thought that could just as easily be her own desires as it could be Eliot’s.  _ On the other hand, I want to love or be loved as hard and as pure as that boy can. _

 

“...have so much fun watching him spaz out when we fuck with him.” She finishes his sentence with an image they can both handle in this moment. Eliot places a soft kiss on the top of her head, a silent ‘thank you’ for understanding where he’s at right now. 

 

The thought of opening up to love of any variety, the trust and vulnerability that it requires, is so overwhelming that it hurts to think about. They melt closer together, clinging harder to one another as they push the offensive thought to the back of their minds. A quiet loneliness surrounds them, tainting the pleasure of this otherwise perfect moment. They interlock fingers and squeeze tight, resisting the thought that something is missing. Pleasure and joy are identical, are they not? They don’t need love; they don’t need anything. They have this, whatever it is. Their elaborate charade of hedonism, draped in decadence and excess, is everything they could ever need, and you can’t convince them otherwise. 


	5. Apropos of Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot and Margo drunkenly Craft their ideal fantasy orgy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so much fucking fun, and surprisingly difficult to write. Eliot and Margo engage in a little activity I like to call a “Fantasy Orgy Draft™️”. They take turns picking their favorite fuckables while indulging in decadent snacks and red wine. Probably the funniest halter, I hope it makes you guys laugh as much as I did.

Rapid clicking of a pen and the soft tapping of pencil on paper pierce the near silence of the room. The soft murmur of people chatting rolls through the space around them. Margo slams her book shut, the loud thud eliciting jumps from most of the room. “We’ve been at this for hours,” Margo groans. “We definitely deserve a break,” she says, her eyes lighting up for what feels like the first time in years. Nothing sucks the life out of her more than studying.

 

Excitement flashes through Eliot’s eyes and his lips twist into a smirk. “Great idea,” he says, softly closing the book in front of him, being careful not to make nearly as much noise. “What do we want tonight?” he asks with renewed excitement in his voice. 

 

“I’m thinking almonds, maybe chocolate.” Her voice rings with a playful laugh as they stand up to abandon their books. 

 

Pondering her suggestion, Eliot brings his finger to his chin with a soft hum. He takes mental stock of their wine options as he tries to select something to pair with decadent snacks. “Merlot,” he says, already making his way to the cabinet. 

 

Margo hums at his suggestion, clearly pleased with his selection. “Meet me upstairs?” She asks, making a quick pit stop to the kitchen while Eliot grabs the wine.

 

Once she has the food in hand, Margo heads up the stairs. She steps into the bathroom and is pleasantly surprised to find Eliot has beaten her there. The room is dark, nearly pitch black, save for a gorgeous, warm halo of light surrounding the tub, creating that spectacular chiaroscuro he is so fond of. The tub is sparkling as though there are bits of crystal embedded in the stone that she has never noticed before this evening. 

 

“Dramatic. I like,” Margo muses with a nod, as she sets the food trays on the sink. 

 

“Of course you like,” he says, leaning in close to her ear as he begins to unbutton his waistcoat.  Stepping aside , she watches him slide his finger beneath the fabric, popping each button out of place as he goes. She’s watched it a million times, but there is something so soothing about how elegantly he removes his clothes. 

 

“A little help, El?” She asks,  turning her back to him , her hair held up in her hands to keep it out of his way. He steps forward, closing the space between them. Placing his chin atop her head, he wraps his arms around her, pulling her close.  Drawing back, he walks his fingers up her spine until he reaches her the clasp of her dress. He effortlessly pops it open and takes the zipper between his fingers. The slow pull of the zipper echoes around them as her soft, warm skin gradually appears from behind her dress. 

 

Turning around, Margo grabs the open ends of her dress and slips it off her shoulders, revealing fresh bruises and bitemarks. The passionate blend of purples and reds trail carefully from her throat to her collarbone, growing larger and more colorful as they descend onto her breasts. Eliot’s eyes light with wicked curiosity when he sees them, despite feeling a little bit betrayed by the fact that she hasn’t mentioned them before. 

 

“Looks like you’ve been having fun.” He leans in close and strokes his finger along her skin, making sure to touch each and every mark. “And who, might I ask, do you owe the pleasure?”

 

“Penny,” she says meeting his gaze with a fierceness that contradicts her disinterested tone. “He definitely owes me,” she says, with a self satisfied laugh. 

 

A soft chuckle leaves Eliot’s lips; Margo truly is something. “You know,” he muses, continuing to undress. “After our little competition, the idea of fucking Penny is increasingly appealing.” 

 

“I’d like to see you try,” she says matter of fact. 

 

Eliot’s scoffs, unsure of her meaning, and cocks an eyebrow.  Is she really issuing another challenge? 

 

“I’m being sincere,” she says with a playful whine, eyes full of false hurt. “I’d like to see you fuck Penny.” They erupt into a fit of laughter and stumble over to the tub. Eliot bows deeply and dramatically gestures with his arms, ushering Margo into the tub like the royalty she truly is. 

 

Slipping her feet into the water, Margo is pleasantly surprised when her golden brown skin disappears into milky white. Eliot slips in behind her, his own skin vanishing into the water, and allows her to settle against him, skin to skin. He brings his arms around her shoulders, and twists his fingers around themselves. With a soft ripple along the water, flowers slowly rise to the surface, milky white droplets rolling off to reveal the near-black, maroon bundles of petals. Eliot folds his arms around Margo, bringing his hands to her shoulders. He strokes soft circles with his thumb before allowing his hands to slide down her arms, submerging both them in the milky bath. Margo lets a flower float into her submerged hand before pulling it out of the water to inspect the way the milky water beads up on the velvet-like petals. 

 

“Black dahlias, classic,” she muses. Eliot hums at her appreciation. He prides himself on the little details. 

 

Dropping the flower back into the water, Margo folds her fingers intricately and the air around them fills with the scent of warm, honeyed almonds. They sigh in unison as it hits their senses. Eliot looks across the room at the bottle and glasses he left by the door. He waves his hand through the air, and they float over to the bath. Focusing his mind on the wine, Eliot telekinetically increasing the pressure inside the bottle until the cork pops loose with a soft hiss. The glasses tip at an angle, the warm light glinting off the surface. The bottle tips to meet the first glass, filling it halfway before standing up upright again. Eliot floats the first glass over to Margo, she grabs it from the air by the bowl. He scowls, offended, at this point she’s just doing it for the reaction and he can’t stand it. He fills the second glass, grabbing it out of the air  _ by the stem  _ (he nearly says it out loud) once it’s filled to his satisfaction. 

 

Margo brings her  glass to her lips, quickly swallowing the contents. When her glass is empty, she sets it at the foot of the tub and grabs the bottle of wine out of the air and takes a swig.

 

“So, back to Penny,” Eliot says before taking a sip of his wine. He makes a casual twist of the fingers. “How was he?”  The almonds  and chocolate rise from their position on the  table by the door  and float over to the bath. They stop a few inches over Eliot’s head and hover in place. Margo reaches up, groping at the tray, but can’t quite reach. Eliot plucks a single almond from the tray and hands it down to her. 

 

Margo narrows her eyes in frustration, now he’s just being petty. “How does it look like he was?” she asks, rhetorically, before popping the almond into her mouth. She leans back into Eliot exposing her neck the dramatic lighting really brings out the depth of the undertones in the bruising. As she settles her shoulders into him, her breasts rise out of the water, the milky white in stunning contrast to her bruise-laden skin. Once she’s comfortable, she tries a different approach to obtaining a snack. With the tray is still out of her reach, she looks up to Eliot with a slight pout. Satisfied with the small sacrifice of ego, Eliot becomes the tray lower. Margo grabs a small handful of almonds while she has the chance. 

 

Eliot takes a sip from his glass of  wine , savoring the taste before he speaks. “ Delicious , though it does leave me wondering how he might take to having marks left on his own body,” Eliot says drawing lazy spirals around her bruises, almost as if trying to string them together. 

 

“Clearly, you haven’t seen him today,” Margo says, matter fact before bringing the  wine bottle to her lips. She twirls her finger through the air, and curls it in a ‘come hither’ motion. Eliot waits for a second before willing the tray of  chocolates to slowly drop toward her, settling comfortably within her reach. 

 

Absentmindedly, Eliot reaches for the tray, grabbing an  almond . “Do you think we can get Q involved?” He says, shifting the subject slightly. 

 

“In what?” She asks. He fingers wander around the tray, reaching for a few  chocolates . 

 

“Our seduction of Penny,” he says, popping the  almond into his mouth. 

 

She laughs as she chases her chocolate with a sip of  wine ; Eliot has been a bit preoccupied with Penny since the end of their competition, as if sucking him off in a room full of people isn’t enough. “Honey, if you want to throw an orgy, you just have to ask,” she says. The next time her hand reaches for the trays, she grabs another handful of  almonds . 

 

At the mention of orgies, Eliot’s face lights up with a beaming smile. “Do you think Q has ever participated in an orgy?” he asks. “I can’t decide if he’s super inexperienced or a secret slut.” 

 

“My money’s on super inexperienced,” Margo says, inspecting her fingernails. 

 

“But I hope he’s a secret slut!” they say in unison, laughing. 

 

Eliot shrugs, he truly has no idea which option delights him more. “I wonder if he’s the type to cling to one person or if he tries to get a little of everyone.” 

 

“Now I need to know.  We should make a plan to find out ,” Margo says. The corners of her lips pull into a devious grin. 

 

Eliot nods, making the mental note. They’ll have to get all the undesirable residents out of the cottage to pull it off. Before he can get too caught up in the planning, he decides to shift the subject just a bit. “Speaking of, let’s play a game!” Eliot says, sitting up a little. The milky water stirs around them, getting dangerously close to spilling over the edge as Margo adjusts to Eliot’s new position. “You’re planning an orgy,” he begins. 

 

“Wait,” Margo interrupts, throwing up a stern hand. “ _ I’m _ planning an orgy or  _ we’re _ planning an orgy?” she asks. 

 

Bringing his hand to his chin, Eliot considers her question, humming for dramatic effect. “For the sake of the game, let’s go with ‘we’,” he says, taking a sip from his  glass . “If you could have anyone, real or fictional, living or dead, who would you invite?”

 

“Penny, clearly,” she says, exposing her throat once more.

 

Eliot rolls his eyes, laughing softly. “Clearly,” he echoes. He reaches for the tray and grabs a couple of chocolates, making sure to pass one to Margo. He pops one into his mouth, pausing a moment to truly appreciate the flavors. Bring the wine glass to his lips, he breathes in through his nose; the aroma is slightly earthy. Taking a generous sip, he allows the flavors and scent to swirl in his mouth, the hints of chocolate left on his tongue open up the more nuanced berry and vanilla notes in in the wine. “So far we have Quentin and Penny.” On the heels of his statement, he takes another sip, this one more to chase the buzz than appreciate the wine itself. 

 

“I would say, ‘image those two fucking’ but...” She trails off; there’s no need to finish her statement. With raised eyebrows and a knowing smirk, she brings the  bottle to her lips without breaking eye contact. Her playful judgement pokes at Eliot as she drinks. 

 

“Who told you?” They erupt into a fit of laughter. The movement from their jovial outburst causes the water to slosh around the tub.

 

“Coldwater would be walking crooked for weeks,” Margo says,  smug . Eliot clinks his glass against the side of the  wine bottle and takes another sip, nodding his approval of the delicious mental image. 

 

Their breathing finally stills to its original, languid pace. Margo leans into Eliot and muses over all the possibilities for this orgy situation. “Todd,” she says after a moment of silent contemplation. 

 

Confused by her redirection, he furrows his brow. “Wait, Todd? I knew he was creepy, but telling people my sexual fantasies is a little much.”

Margo can’t quite tell if Eliot is just playing dumb or if he’s seriously confused. “No, El. Todd should be invited to our orgy.” 

 

Rolling his eyes hard, Eliot groans. “Ugh, you and Todd,” he says, offended. 

 

Margo shifts slightly, rolling over so her head rests on his chest, facing him. The translucent water splashes softly as she turns. “What?” She asks, incredulous. “That mouth is incredible and even you have to admit that he tastes amazing.” 

 

Eliot scoffs and turns his nose up in a dramatic display of defiance. Fluttering his fingers, he grasps for words, but grumbling under his breath before resigning with a sigh. He hates when she’s right, and she takes so much pleasure in that fact.

 

Margo pushes herself off of Eliot’s chest, sending water flooding over the edge of the tub. The thick white water becomes a shiny grey against the dark tile flooring. Margo leans back against the opposite side of the tub, propping her delicate feet on Eliot’s chest where her head had been, splashing milky water onto his face. He grimaces, wiping the water away and Margo slides her body between his feet. Once they’re face to face, a smug smile spreads across her lips before she takes another smug sip from the  wine bottle. 

 

Relaxing into the tub, Eliot lazily reaches for a handful of chocolates. One by one, he pops them into his mouth, holding Margo’s gaze. After watching Eliot enjoy a couple of pieces, Margo beckons the tray closer and grabs a handful of her own. “Fine, forget Todd,” she says, with flippant wave of her hand. “How about someone we’ll both enjoy?” 

 

They lock eyes for a moment, alternating playful sips of wine, and suggestive eyebrow raises. A wicked smile spreads across Margo’s lips, and its twin spreads across Eliot’s soon after. Eliot holds up three fingers. He subtracts one, then the next, counting down. Once the the final finger has returned to his palm, they blurt their response in unison. 

 

“Young Marlon Brando!” Their voices are loud and joyous, echoing off the walls around them. The porcelain and stone amplify their voices with a  heavy ring. They erupt into another fit of laughter. Heaving chests and shaking shoulders send small waves of milky water over the edge of the tub. A couple of black dahlias bump into each other as the movement of the water pushes them around the tub. Margo moans that thought. 

 

“That smile,” she says, wistfully.

 

“Those arms,” Eliot adds with a sigh.

 

“That naughty little eye roll,” Margo moans as the image plays on repeat in her head. 

 

“Who else?” 

 

Margo shrugs and grabs an  almond , raising an eyebrow. Eliot tilts his head for a moment, confused. She makes a small tossing motion with the almond, and Eliot nods. He leans his head back slightly and opens his mouth. Closing one eye to line up her shot, Margo tosses the almond across the tub at his mouth. It bounces off his nose and disappears into the nearly opaque water. She tosses another, this one landing squarely in Eliot’s mouth. Margo giggles as he chews the  almond , chasing it with a sip from his  wine glass. 

 

“Who else?” she asks, repeating his question. “Your turn to pick.” 

 

Eliot places his  wine glass pensively against the cleft of his chin, humming as he considers his options. His face lights up, “Oscar Wilde!” Margo ‘oohs’ at his suggestion, urging him to continue.

 

“A queer icon and literary legend,” he says as if he’s performing for a packed house instead of his intimate audience of one. “I’m dying to know exactly what that dramatic bitch got up to behind closed doors.” Margo laughs at the irony of the moment. 

 

They both take a sip of wine, almost simultaneously. Margo starts to offer another suggestion, but Eliot quickly chimes in with, “Patrick Swayze circa 1991.” Margo snickers at the specificity. “Though to be honest, I’d take him anywhere from 1987 to 2001,” he adds with a  blasé affectation. 

 

“You would,” Margo says, playfully stretching her foot out to lightly swat at his face. 

 

Eliot swats back with his hand, pushing her feet away from his face. “Oh, and you wouldn’t,” his voice drips with incredulity. The erratic movements send more milky  water over the edge of the tub, they’re going to have quite the mess to clean up when they’re done tonight. Thank fuck for magic. 

 

“That’s not what I said,” Margo counters. She reaches up and grabs a handful of  chocolate and  almonds , why the fuck they didn’t just spring for chocolate covered almonds, she’ll never know. “We’re getting distracted. Orgy,” she commands, using her snack-filled hand to give a sharp point to spur Eliot on. 

 

“It’s definitely your turn,” Eliot almost whines. He gazes longingly at the last few pieces of chocolate on the tray; when Margo doesn’t oblige him, he pouts dramatically. She rolls her eyes, then pushes the tray through the air with a single finger.

 

While she thinks, Margo eats her small handful of almonds and chocolate. She moans softly, partially at the taste, but mostly at the conclusion she reaches. “Oliver,” she suggests in husky voice. She licks the melted chocolate  from her fingers, quickly following it with a generous sip of wine. 

 

“That little tease wouldn’t know what to do with himself in a situation like that,” Eliot brings his wine  to his lips, and drains the rest of the glass.

 

Margo takes another drink from the wine bottle. “I’m confident he’d figure it out,” she says. “ With a little help.”

 

“Share,” Eliot says, dragging the syllable out, his voice wavering between begging and scolding. 

 

Margo holds the wine bottle behind her head, attempting to keep it out of Eliot’s reach. “We’ve been over this,” she replies. “I don’t share.” 

 

“Except with me,” he says  running a finger from her foot, down to her knee. The sensation sends electricity up her spine and she groans, trying to mask the sudden itch she would rather not be feeling right now. She relents, passing the bottle into his hand. For a moment, Eliot considers pouring some into his glass, but he eschews decorum and joins her in drinking straight from the  bottle . He takes a deep drink, earning a scolding glare from Margo. 

 

After finishing off the bottle, Eliot looks across the room at the second bottle by the door. He considers it, but they are entirely too comfortable for one of them to get up, and the thought of opening a second bottle with his mind is unbearable. With an intricate twist of his finger, he casts a spell to refill the bottle in his hand. Wine rises from the bottle to the neck as he drags his finger from the bottom of the bottle all the way to the top. Margo nods her approval, forgiving him for drinking the last of her wine. “Alan Cumming might be nice,” he muses as the wine settles. 

 

Margo moans her approval. “But he has to be wearing that cockring he wore under his kilt at the X2 premier,” she adds before reaching out and curling her fingers, asking for the wine back. 

 

Eliot groans in agreement, envisioning Alan Cumming inviting people to feel what he’s wearing beneath his kilt. “Yes!” He takes another sip of wine before starting to pass the bottle back to Margo. “Don’t hold back on my account,” he quickly snatches it out of her reach, teasing her. “I know there are some girls you’re dying to ravish.” Once he lowers it back down enough for her to grab, she quickly slides it out of his hand.

 

Margo takes a deep drink from the wine bottle as she considers his words. She would love to add a few women to the equation. “Honestly,” she starts. Eliot cocks an eyebrow, already intrigued by the fact that she felt the need to preface her first choice. “Sunderland.” She considers adding a bit of explanation, but decides to let Eliot stew in her choice a little bit first. 

 

A slight smile tugs at the corner of Eliot’s mouth. “Really?” he asks, his voice rising with excitement. 

 

“I hear she has some pretty kinky shit hidden in her office,” she says smoothly, taking another sip of  wine before passing the bottle off to Eliot. 

 

Eliot takes a quick sip of  wine , dripping deep red onto his lips as he pulls away from the bottle. He runs his tongue over his lips to collect the drops of wine before speaking. “And if she doesn’t?” 

 

Margo considers his question for a bit, absentmindedly tapping her fingers against the side of the tub as she thinks. The click of her nails echoes softly around them. “I don’t need whips and chains to throw her over a desk,” Margo says with a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders. 

 

“I think she would be the one throwing you,” Eliot says with a wicked grin before taking a deep drink of  wine . 

 

Margo kicks some of the milky water at his face, causing them both to burst into laughter. There are few things Eliot loves more than the sound of Margo’s genuine laughter. He splashes some water back before settling his hand back onto her leg. “Camille was surprisingly good,” she says, changing the subject to the hot psychic girl she had the pleasure of fucking last semester. Margo reaches for the wine and Eliot passes it back to her. Thank the gods for his long arms. She sighs, taking a sip, as she melts deeper into the tub. 

 

Water rocks and flows as Eliot glides his hands along Margo’s leg. Her skin is luxuriously smooth from the water. “Worth a repeat performance, though?” he asks, genuinely curious. “I don’t recall any singing from the rooftops the next day.” He begins to massage slow, firm circles into her leg with his thumb, Margo moans at the release. “Don’t mistake convenience for  skill , Bambi,” he scolds, sliding his hands up to her feet, working that same delicious pressure just below her toes. 

 

Allowing her eyes to fall closed, Margo hums at the gorgeous strokes from Eliot’s fingers. She takes a moment to get lost in his touch before responding. “She wasn’t amazing, but not bad,” she sighs as Eliot’s thumb press into just the right spot on her foot. “Is there a second string for orgies?” Eliot laughs and switches to the other foot. “Faith from Buffy,” Margo says matter of fact, welcoming their first fictional character into the fray. “I would do  _ terrible _ things to Eliza Dushku in leather,” she moans the words, partially for effect, partially in response to what Eliot is doing to her feet.

 

“Continue, there have to be more than two and a half girls on your list,” he says in a low, soothing voice. He really knows how to set the mood. 

 

“You can talk shit when you present me with more than one option that’s still breathing,” she snaps, taking a triumphant sip of  wine . Taken aback, Eliot’s mouth hangs slightly ajar. “Zoe Saldana,” she deadpans, not giving him the opportunity to return her quip. “Have you  _ seen  _ that movie where she’s fucking Mila Kunis?” she asks, passing the  wine back. The question is rhetorical; it’s one of their regular indulgences. Now that she mentions it, Mila Kunis wouldn’t be a bad addition. “Her too,” she adds. 

 

Eliot drinks deeply from the wine bottle. “That scene in the library is delicious,” he says. Closing her eyes, Margo moans at the thought and her hips roll beneath the water, spilling some onto the floor. Eliot cocks an eyebrow as he watches the wantan display. “The rest of the movie isn’t bad, either,” he says before taking another sip of wine. Margo hums in agreement before slowly opening her eyes. 

 

“Now that you’ve picked your jaw up, how about you put some actual bodies in our orgy.” 

 

“Like you wouldn’t fuck the ghost of Marlon Brando,” Eliot scoffs. 

 

Margo laughs, “Oh, I would, but I need some flesh and blood to ride too.” 

 

“Excuse me for having vintage tastes,” his inflection makes it very clear that what he really means is ‘good taste’.

 

Rolling her eyes, Margo reaches for the  wine . Eliot considers withholding it, but ultimately relents. Margo opens her mouth to speak but she is quickly cut off by Eliot; a lightning strike of brilliance brings a wide smile to his face.

 

“Paul Newman, James Dean, Eartha Kitt,” he deadpans, pointing a stern finger into the air as he shares his genius. Margo’s eyes lighting up with excitement is all the agreement be needs. 

 

“Who wouldn’t kill to watch that legendary threesome in person?” She has to admit that would be an incredible addition to their fantasy.

 

Eliot nods his agreement, but his brow suddenly knots together. “But is it worth getting upstaged at our own orgy for?”

 

Margo can already see the wheels turning, he’s going to spiral if she doesn’t short circuit this now. “Orgy. Living. Preferably young. Go.” She snaps her fingers to punctuate the last word before finally taking a sip of the wine. 

 

Eliot runs his finger along the underside of her foot, sending a chill up her spine. “Get over here and I’ll consider it,” he says, reaching for her hands. Setting the  wine bottle on the ground, Margo swings her legs over the edge of the tub, sitting herself upright. Still reaching forward, Eliot wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her into him, sending water splashing as their skin meets. He runs a wet hand through her hair and places a kiss atop her head. “Stanley Tucci,” he says once she’s resting against his chest. “There’s no way that man is straight.”

 

Margo’s laughter tickles as her shoulders shake against his chest. “Not bad,” she muses, but she definitely isn’t satisfied. “We watch a ton of movies together, El. Someone has to have piqued your interest.” She traces soft spirals into the hair on his chest. 

 

The hand wrapped around Margo’s waist starts to lightly stroke her skin. Eliot sighs, it’s been a while since they’ve been able to relax like this. Keeping up the game, he lets out a second, more dramatic sigh, feigning exasperation. “ _ Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights _ is an insult to the good name of Swayze—but I might fuck the guy in it.” 

 

“Might,” Margo repeats, condescending him. Eliot has always pretended to be more selective about fucktoys than he truly is. “What about Luke James?” she asks. “I know you love a pretty boy who can sing.” 

 

“Ugh, no,” he says, turning his nose up. 

 

Margo gasps dramatically, as if Eliot doesn’t have the same reaction every time she brings him up. “You have to admit he’s hot,” she presses, playfully. 

 

Eliot rolls his eyes.“Yeah, but he’s cocky,” he says, stroking her side. 

 

“What does that make you?”

 

Eliot laughs, not bothering to feign offense. “He’s straight, it’s different.” Margo nods, tacitly agreeing. Beneath the water, Eliot strokes her leg, reveling in the lavish feel of her skin. “Your skin is so soft,” Eliot says close to her ear,  running his hand along her smooth thigh, kneading as he goes. The milky water has softened her skin, leaving her deliciously silky beneath his rough touch. 

 

“The milk bath was a great idea, El,” she says, running her own hand down his arm, savoring the luxuriousness. 

 

There is a knock at the door. They both hear it but neither one of them chooses to acknowledge it; it’s an unspoken rule that the upstairs bathroom is off limits when Eliot and Margo are having a moment. 

 

“Ignore it, they’ll go away,” Margo says, matter of fact. Another knock, this one much louder. Whoever is out there switched to pounding with the side of their fist. When the banging doesn’t stop, Eliot groans. “What?” Margo snaps. The bite in her voice shatters the lush, playful ambiance they’ve spent all day curating. 

 

“I need to pee,” a voice calls from behind the door. It’s Todd. 

 

“Use the other bathroom,” Eliot calls out through the door.

 

“Someone’s in that one,” Todd whines.

 

“Ugh, Fine,” Margo says, mentally willing herself to get out of the tub. “It was good while it lasted.” She shares an apologetic glance with Eliot, they’ll have to pick this up next time.


	6. We Have Brought You Little Cakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margo has recently returned from the Faerie Realm and is missing one of her eyes. Eliot offers a bath to try to reconnect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this bath, I wanted to try to explore the way the events of season 2 changed their intimacy and dynamic. This is likely their first shared bath since they arrived in Fillory. Set right before their little shindig to attract Ember, this chapter starts to get a little bit into the heavier angst. After months of pulling teeth to get these two to cooperate, we finally have a complete bath™️.
> 
> As always, thanks to Vivi and Rae for being the sharpest, flyest machetes on the block.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy.

“We deserve a break,” Eliot sighs in exasperation. He can’t remember the last time he said those words, but they have never been more true in his life.

Margo stares blankly for a moment, not quite registering what was said, or perhaps not sure she believed it. After everything she’s done, everything she’s bargained away, is Eliot really making the offer? Maybe it’s a peace offering. She certainly hopes it is. She lets out a desperate, exhausted laugh—the kind that might sound like bitterness to anyone but Eliot’s trained ear.

“Yeah, we do. Don’t we?” She slowly reaches her hand out to him. He meets her halfway and interlocks their fingers. He gives her a reassuring squeeze and looks into her face. His eyes flick around a bit as he struggles with how to focus, he still hasn’t gotten used to the eyepatch.

“Lead the way to your office.”

She swats at him and shoots a playful glare that is way more intimidating now that she’s down an eye.

“Hey, you should take a page out of my book, gotta blow off steam somehow.”

She walks him to the bathroom, and for the first time, their ritual procession feels more like a funeral march than the excited rushing of partners.

They step over the threshold together not yet ready to unlock their fingers. It’s a bit strange, she’s taken a lot of baths in this tub, but never with Eliot. Come to think of it, this is the first bath they’ve taken together since they first arrived in Fillory.

Small flames and candles surround the tub, the warm light hits the rough, stone walls and creates intricate shadows. The vastness and high ceiling make the room both open and oddly suffocating. The bathroom of castle Whitespire feels like a dream, but at this point they’re not so sure it’s a good one. It’s cold in the bath chamber. The white porcelain tub is already full with hot water, steam making its way to the ceiling. Margo wonders who drew the bath for them and how long in advance Eliot had them set this up. She starts to wonder if he even had her in mind when he ordered it, but quickly decides it’s best she not think too hard about that.

Margo opens up her overdress, and slides it off her shoulders. She reaches her arms behind her to try to grip the clasp of her gown. Grunting in frustration, she stretches and strains at what is just out of her reach, all while standing up on her toes as if it might help. She releases a heavy sigh, and drops her arms, slumping her shoulders in defeat. This really hasn’t been her day. She’s a bit hesitant to ask Eliot for help, but she’s gonna have to get over that if she wants to get in this bath. Before she gets the chance to turn and ask for help, she feels his rough hands on her shoulders.

“Allow me,” he rubs her shoulders a bit to start to loosen her up before he unhooks the clasp. For a moment, he's thrown off by the tattoo that now takes up residence between her shoulder blades.

“Thank you” she says as Eliot unzips her, allowing her body to begin to relax a little. Eliot strokes a finger along the intricate ink work between her shoulder blades. She shivers a little bit at the touch. The new addition to her skin is as unfamiliar and disorienting as the distance and tension that has formed between them. It sums her up fairly accurately, though; commanding, bold, and surprisingly delicate, not that she’d ever admit it.

“Still kinda bummed I missed out on this wild ride,” he muses as he continues to stroke the tattoo, determined to commit this new development to memory.

“Trust me, El, if you had been on that wild ride, you wouldn’t be saying that. Hurt like a bitch; I’ll never forget it.” She physically trembles at the memory of the feeling. “Or Quentin’s girly shrieking.” Laughing, Eliot steps away from her to give her space to undress completely.

Turning around to face him, Margo looks over at Eliot as he removes his clothes, one by one, slowly revealing her home. He gives her a weak smile and gets into the tub, waving her over to join him.

“Are you going to leave the crown on, El?”

“And miss the opportunity to mark our first truly royal bath?” They try to laugh a little at his playfulness. “I suggest you do the same. Nothing quite says decadence like gold and gemstones.”

She slips in after him, her back to his chest. The fit is a bit snug in this tub, but the closeness is welcome. If she could bring herself any closer to him in this moment, she absolutely would.

Eliot’s contented sigh echoes off the wall as he feels Margo’s deep hum vibrate against his chest. They’ve almost forgotten what it feels like to truly share skin, and yet somehow, fitting back together is like muscle memory.

“So, uh, how was your trip?”

“A little expensive for my tastes,” she says with acid in her voice.

“Does that mean our vacation is cancelled?” He says, hopeful a little banter will relax her.

“You wouldn’t like it. It’s musty, and the locals aren’t even close to being fuckable,” she quips, though the exhaustion in her voice is betraying her facade. It’s getting so difficult to keep her guard up. She just wants to lean back and melt into the bath, into Eliot.

He brings his arms around her and rests a hand on her lower ribs, stroking lightly with his thumb. She pulls her hands from beneath the water and slowly strokes them along Eliot’s arms, pulling them close. Her breathing is finally slowly down to move with his. They’re still, breathing in time, willing everything around them to stop, if only for just a moment. They’ve been through so much, and have grown so far a part. They’re not sure what’s next, so they take this moment to simply exist together.

“Hey,” he says, “Turn around.” He gently pushes on her shoulder to help her shift. The sound of sloshing water reverbates around them. Less submerged in the too-hot water than they once were, they’re starting to feel just how cold the air is around them. Once they’re face to face, he rests his legs against her sides, enveloping her; he laughs a little bit at the image. It can be so easy to forget how truly small Margo is. So often, she is the largest energy in the room, despite her small stature. Eliot can see in her eye, that she wants to make herself smaller, but is fighting the urge. He brings his wet hand to her face and cups her cheek, stroking her with his thumb. He strokes a little too close to her eyepatch and she flinches.

Trying to pull away from his touch, Margo turns her head. “Don’t,” she says. Eliot’s eyes meet hers and soften as if to ask permission. She hesitates at first, but this is Eliot. Given everything she’s taken from him, the least she can offer is a little vulnerability. At her gentle nod, he removes her eyepatch, and sets it on the floor behind him, out of her reach. He pauses for a moment to really take her in. He’s struck with a deep pain that he can’t quite articulate; she’s harsh and careworn, but still so beautiful. Gingerly, he cups the back of her neck, and places a sweet kiss right beneath where her eye once was. She closes her remaining eye and tries not to break. It’s not often Margo is handled like something so small and fragile.

“You are High Queen Margo the Destroyer. You are beautiful, and you are stronger than I could ever dream to be.” She leans into his familiar touch and sighs. Her shoulders drop as they release tension she didn’t even realize she was holding. She’s slowly starting to come back into herself. This is the closest thing she’s had to relaxation in a long time.

It’s her turn to make a bit of a peace offering. “I did everything I could, El,” she says. Though her voice is stoic, her eye drops its gaze from his face and she wraps her arms around her legs. Eliot brings his arms around her and pulls her into his chest and rests his chip atop her head. He’s not sure he’s ever seen her quite this vulnerable. “I even offered to get knocked up, but...” she trails off a bit, suddenly somewhere else.

“I know, Bambi,” he strokes her hair with wet hands. “I know.” He spends a moment holding her. “I promise I won’t tell anybody if you let yourself cry right now,” he says. His voice breaks a little and he laughs uncomfortably.

“And fuck up my eyeliner? I could cut a bitch with this wing,” She says. She finally allows herself to drop her guard. Her last bit of resistance in her face is ushered away as her chin trembles. She tries to pull herself closer into Eliot and lets the tears flow.

Hoping to comfort her, Eliot continues to stroke her hair. “On the bright side, you don’t have to worry about matching your eye makeup any more,” he says. She considers keeping up the banter, but she doesn’t have the energy. Her body is starting to get sore and tight in this position, her feet scrunched against the hard tub.

“El, honey, this position is the opposite of comfortable. I need to move.”

They roll around awkwardly, slipping and splashing against each other until Margo’s back reconnects with Eliot’s chest. They relax for a bit, and take in their surroundings, hoping if they try hard enough the cold stone walls of Whitespire might feel like the small cottage they once called home. Those days feel so distant, they’ve gained and lost so much. Tonight is a reminder, that if nothing else, they have each other.


	7. Heroes and Morons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margo takes a bath alone after Eliot leaves on the Muntjac.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, we’re balls deep in Emotions™️ now, guys. This chapter was one of the first ones I saw when this concept hit me. I had a really visceral image of Margo in this bath deep in her feelings and I hope you guys can appreciate. I think I’m going to let this one speak for itself.

The sight of the steam rising from the faucetless marble tub is somewhere between soothing and patronizing. She’s frustrated that her  stress level is  loud enough that the council has picked up on it, but relieved that she doesn’t have to draw the bath herself; it has become a real chore since magic has gone out. The last thing she needs is to lug gallons of water around by hand before she can try to relax. She has to hand it to Rafe, his timing is impeccable, though, if she wants to enjoy the bath while it’s hot, she needs to undress quickly. 

 

Grabbing the high collar of her caplet with both hands, Margo takes a deep breath and exhales sharply through tight lips. She slides her finger beneath the placket and pops the ornate button through the hole. Releasing another hard sigh, she unfastens the next two buttons one after the other. Once the cape is open, she shrugs it off her shoulders and lets it fall to her feet. Pulling her blouse over her head, she kicks her boots off and walks over to the tub. She tosses her blouse to where her cape sits and quickly slips out of her pants. Taking a seat on the edge of the tub, she looks around the room. The  grandiose  pillars and and the intricate stonework of the bathroom have long been her respite, but this is the first time that they are her only companions. Margo has taken many baths alone in Whitespire, but this one isn’t by choice. 

 

“We deserve a break,” she says with a sigh, too quiet for the walls to catch and echo back. She can’t help but hope that Eliot, wherever he is in this moment, can feel her say it, and maybe take a bath of his own. Her eye tightens shut, and she holds her breath just long enough to fight back the overwhelming feeling bubbling beneath her skin. Everything will be okay. He’ll come home and in the meantime she will sort out what the fuck to do with these fairy pricks. 

 

Margo drags her legs over the edge of the tub. Her toes hit the hot water and she recoils. Rafe never can get the temperature right.  The hot steam coming off the bath hits her with the hard realization of just how cold she’s gotten sitting on the edge of the tub. Her arms wrap around her body, absentmindedly trying to stroke some warmth back into the skin that wasn’t assaulted by the unbearable heat. She takes a deep breath and slides into the tub with a soft ‘splash’.

 

She shifts uncomfortably beneath the surface; the water is scalding, almost too hot to bear, and yet a cold loneliness runs deep in her bones. The uncomfortable mix of temperatures results in an involuntary shiver. If that sloth-fucking idiot wasn’t so easily distracted, maybe she would be having a decent fucking bath right now. 

 

Grabbing the crown  atop her head , she inspects the gold and gemstone. The crown is just as pristine as the day Eliot placed it on her head. Closing her eye, she tries to will herself to feel his lips on her forehead, his chin brushing the bridge of her nose, but the memory is starting to get hazy. Has it really been that long?  Opening her her eye and  setting the crown on the small table to the right of her, she releases a hard sigh, trying to force her body to relax. Despite her best efforts, the muscles between her shoulders refuse to let go of the tension knotting up in them. A slow, throbbing pain runs all the way down her spine. She shifts her hips beneath the water to try to work it out. After a moment of restless tossing and shifting, she gives another hard sigh and drops her hands into the tub, defeated. The ‘plop’ of the water splashing around her hands echoes off the cold, stone walls. 

 

Margo straightens her legs, pulling her toes as far as they will stretch, the strain of the muscles may be the closest thing she gets to relaxation for a while. She stops stretching and lets her body fall slack. Her chest heaves slowly on a deep inhale and her  eyelid grows heavy . On the exhale, she shifts and leans back into Eliot so he can wrap his arms around her. Cold, hard porcelain meets the soft, wet skin of her back, nearly stopping her heart dead. 

 

Fuck. 

 

Her eye slams shut and her teeth sink into her bottom lip to try to keep it from trembling. The sobs burst out of her,  shaking her entire body to the point of rippling the water around her  and yet still unable to take any of the tension away. 

 

The rapid pitter-patter of tiny feet scurrying across the room snaps her out of her haze. She shakes her head, trying to unrattle all the mental fog. The grey, wiry hair of a large rat catches her eye as it darts across the stone floor of the castle bathroom. She lets out a loud groan of disgust. What is the point of being a queen alone in this giant castle, keeping the company of rodents and talking animals while the Fairies colonize her kingdom one RPG side quest at a time? Unsettled by the intrusion, Margo hugs herself tighter and surveys the room. The dark castle bathroom has unfortunate final touches of cobwebs and stray dirt now that there is no magic to assist in keeping everything clean. The candlelight is uneven due to a small gust of wind blowing out a few of the flames; the remaining candles flicker at a disjointed pace that makes her blood boil for reasons she doesn't bother to explore. Continuing her scan of the room, her eye lands on the drinking goblet Rafe set out for her. At least the squirrely little prick managed to get one thing right. She brings the goblet to her lips and takes a deep sip. Warm, tasteless water hits her tongue; the unfulfilled expectation of wine twists her face into abject disgust. With a harsh grunt, she hurls the drinking vessel across the room with such force that it bounces off the stone wall, making sure to leave a dent before landing in the puddle it created. Stupid thing won’t even shatter like she hoped. Figures that would be the one thing in this castle that actually does its fucking job.

 

She brings her hands to her face and tries to fight back the sobs, but the tears are pouring down one side of her face, leaving her feeling lopsided. Stupid fucking Fairy Queen taking her stupid fucking eye. There is nothing she hates more than crying like some pathetic damsel and feeling this vulnerable, this exposed. She can’t remember the last time she truly felt naked. She scoffs at her own emotional outburst before yanking her eyepatch from her face, snapping the band and shredding some of the delicate lace. She feels small, broken, and uncomfortably aware of her missing parts. Trapped in this cold castle, in this lonely skin, she is desperate to feel something else, anything else. If she closes her eye and tries hard enough, she can almost still feel Eliot on her lips. She quickly buries the thought that maybe that will be the last time she feels him at all. 

 

Taking a deep breath, Margo presses her shoulders hard against the tub, trying to familiarize herself with its cold lifelessness. She watches the surface of the water settle, the ripples moving slower with every passing second as it stills around her now motionless body. The surface is painfully  transparent , no bubbles, milk powder or flowers to hide behind, just clean water and lonely skin. Margo kicks her legs to disturb the surface of the water one more time. She’s sick of looking at herself alone beneath the surface. How fucking hard is it to get some decent bubbles going and a bottle of the rat piss they try to pass for champagne—as if Eliot hasn’t had them working on it for the better part of a year or two (however the fuck time works in Fillory). She throws her head back and groans out some more of her frustration. 

 

Resigned, Margo reaches a shaky hand into her hair. Her long fingers thread into the intricate bun, searching for the bobby-pins that hold it together. As she runs her fingers beneath the carefully constructed bun, the hard metal of the first pin bumps her finger. She wraps her fingers around it and pulls it out slowly, setting it on the table beside her; it hits the table with a soft ‘click’. Threading both hands beneath her bun, she massages her scalp, slowly removing bobby-pins as she comes in contact with them. They pile up on the table, in what looks to be a small army’s worth, and she can’t help but shed another tear as she absentmindedly arranges the pins in neat little lines. Eliot would certainly have something to say about the sheer volume of metal she just removed from her hair, and she would quip back that she finally has to put in as much effort as he does to keep up appearances. They would take turns lightly jabbing at each other until the laughter took over. Once the last pin has been removed, her bun unravels in a swift spiral as it falls down her back. The tickle of the hair between her shoulder blades causes her to shiver involuntarily. Starting with the end, she untwists her hair the rest of the way, working her way up to the elastic atop her head. Pulling it out of her hair, her long, thick curls fall around her face and shoulders. Suddenly, the weight of a feeling she can’t quite place sits on her chest, she considers knocking the pins and her crown to the floor, but she knows it won’t take the feeling away; it’ll simply leave her with a mess to clean and a dented, scuffed crown. She watches her dark curls float along the surface of the bath. She considers slipping beneath the water to enjoy the stillness of it, but she’s afraid she might not resurface. 

 

Fuck, she acknowledged it.

 

She’s afraid. 

 

Fear is one of many things Margo would prefer not to deal with, and yet here she is, literally soaking in it. She huffs at the thought. She can’t decide if it’s easier or not to face her fear alone. The tears well up again as the thought truly hits her. Her brow furrows as she tries to hold them back, but they’re pouring down her face again. 

 

Alone. Something she and Eliot vowed to make sure neither one of them would ever have to be again. Eliot. She tries not to fixate. The thought of not seeing him again makes her lose control of her sobs. The surface of the water ripples with the shaking of her hunched shoulders and the tears dripping from her face. When her sobs become loud enough to echo, she fights to rein herself in. The last thing she wants is people thinking she needs someone else.

 

As if her fear summoned him, a knock at door ushers in the voice of Rafe. “Are you alright, Your Highness?” he asks in his usual mousy tone. “The counsel has been waiting for you.” 

 

Fuck, she completely forgot. She wipes her tears from her face, though the wetness of her hands makes a mockery of the attempt. A haggard cough clears her throat before she responds.

 

“Almost done,” she says, with a mostly even voice. It’s almost sad how easy it is for her to mask her feelings. She was built to survive. A lifetime of neglect and underestimation tempered her into the steel-hearted force of nature that earned the epithet of ‘The Destroyer’, but right now, she’s not sure she can be anything other than ‘Bambi’, a doe-eyed girl crying  alone in a bathtub. 

 

She inhales deeply, reminding herself that she can be and survive anything she needs to. The sting of Eliot’s absence is painfully apparent; she shouldn’t fucking have to do any of this alone anymore. That was the whole point of bonding so tightly with him.

 

She shakes the thought from her head and hoists herself from the tub, heavy bath water dripping from her body as she walks across the room. Grabbing her towel she inhales deeply, holding the breath a moment as she tries to dry herself off, hoping the towel will absorb just as much of this pain as it does water. She exhales, deliberately releasing a slow, even breath, something she picked up from that stupid therapist her parents paid for to get her out of their hair as a child. Another deep breath in has her shoulders relaxing, her head falls back on the exhale as she shoves the tension to the back of her mind. 

 

With her skin as dry as it’s going to get, she dresses herself in the clothes she discarded onto the floor. She grabs what remains of her eyepatch from the floor. Stroking the torn lace with her fingers, she laughs bitterly. She has half a mind to march in there without it; she would kill to watch Tick squirm as he tries to disregard her eyelessness. She pulls the patch around her face and ties the torn ends together behind her head. Grabbing her caplet from the ground, her shoulders tighten as she swings it over them. As each button slips through its designated slot, her posture straightens, as if rebuilding her spine bone by bone. When the final button is done, she walks over to the side table and retrieves her crown, the weight of it on her head nearly a switch for her stone cold demeanor. She takes one last deep breath and tries to convince herself that Eliot will come home and everything will be okay, something she is desperate to believe. Once she’s as put together as she is going to be, she places both hands on the heavy wooden door and swings it open. A dumbstruck Rafe is standing on the other side, he jumps, clearly startled by the force with which she opened the door. His head bows slightly, acknowledging her entrance. Without making eye contact, she speaks, “Don’t forget to empty the tub tonight.” And with that, it’s on with the rest of her day; she has a kingdom to run. 


	8. A Life in the Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunited after a long time apart, Eliot and Margo take a bath in the cottage for old time’s sake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I fucking hate Songfics™️. I was so thrown off balance when I fell in love with a chapter concept that focused heavily on a piece of music. To be fair,this chapter does not employ the song fic format, but music does play a role. I’ll like the song at the end of piece for those of you who would like to give it a listen either before or after reading.
> 
> We all have a TON of feels about Quentin and Eliot in A Life in the Day, but I think there are some good Eliot and Margo moments worth exploring as well. The way they embrace after Margo comes back with the keys hurt all 3 of my feelings and this was the result.

Margo exhales a heavy breath, so trapped behind a haze she’s unable to appreciate the way the late afternoon sun gently kisses everything in the room. Eliot and Quentin speak quietly, both full of a concern for Margo that neither one of them is brave enough to voice just yet. The soft quiet of the cottage is both a comfortable reprieve from Fillory and a painful reminder of the sharp turn their lives took when they first travelled there. The once commonplace image of carefree students, dancing and laughing in their make-believe kingdom, drinking away the time, feels more like a hallucination than a memory. 

 

Margo looks at Eliot, but doesn’t hear much of what he’s saying. She never imagined she would find herself digging up a corpse in a desperate attempt to reverse the deaths of her only friends. 

 

“Margo, you saved our lives,” Eliot’s words start to pull her out of her fog. 

 

“In addition to robbing the cradle and a grave. I’ll never get that smell out of my hair.” 

 

Eliot sits for moment, half dazed, half contemplating his next words. Each time he says them, they feel more and more true  in the worst way possible. He looks over at Quentin, softening his eyes in apology, but he needs to do this; she needs him to do this. He leans in closer, speaking softly, “Sounds like we deserve a break.” He tries to keep his voice light, but worry and fear cling tightly to his words. 

 

Without turning to face him, Margo nods slowly, still gripping both her drink and the key tight as she gazes  across the room. Eliot wraps his arm around Margo, her skin still hot and grimy from retrieving the key. He brings his other hand to her shoulder, slowly sliding it down her arm; dirt and sweat maring her typically soft, smooth skin. She wants to melt into his touch, but she can’t bring herself to relax yet, so much has happened and she isn’t ready to risk this moment being just another cruel trick of the universe. When his hand reaches hers, he slides his fingers into her palm, slipping the key from her grasp. He hands the key to Quentin, again wordlessly apologizing with his eyes. Quentin nods, face full of concern and understanding as he takes the key. 

 

Eliot pushes himself off the couch and stands before Margo. Sliding his fingers between hers, he takes the glass from her hand, setting it down so he can help her to her feet. He places the glass back into her hand and wraps his arms around her. He brings his lips to the back of her head in a soft kiss. Margo leans into him slightly as he nudges her forward. 

 

After a solemn walk up the stairs, they stop at the threshold of the bathroom. It’s been a lifetime since they’ve called this place home. Eliot reaches beyond the door frame, flipping the light switch on with hesitant hands. He can’t remember the last time he’s had to do anything by hand in this bathroom. Margo takes a step into the room and brings her beer to her lips, she pauses just long enough for the cold glass to convince her that this is real, then drains the beer in one go.

 

Across the room, Eliot is crouched in front of a cabinet, arm full of pillar candles. He’s tossing the contents of the cabinet around in a frantic search. 

 

“There’s not a single goddamn match in this place,” he says bitterly. 

 

“Why would we need matches when we could just,” she snaps her fingers. Magic has been gone for months, but they still fill with disappointment when her fingers don’t ignite a small flame. They are making progress on the quest, but they still have so far to go. Frustrated, Eliot tosses all the candles recklessly back into the cabinet. 

 

“I’ll be right back,” he says to Margo. She nods, but her eye flickers with panic and worry just long enough for Eliot to notice. He steps over to her, taking her face into his hands, stroking soft circles against her cheek with his thumb. “I’m right here, Bambi,” he says, reassuring her. She brings her hand to his face, stroking softly before bringing it to his neck, as if still searching for signs of life. They hold each other’s eyes (or eye in Margo’s case), desperate and confused. This is the longest they’ve been apart since they met, and so much has happened. She almost lost him, and she can’t bear to go through that again. Eliot’s lips melt against her forehead in a tender kiss. She allows her eye to fall closed as she tries to relax into him. She scolds herself for being so needy. He’s alive and he isn’t going far; it shouldn’t be this hard to let him go. Taking a deep breath, she looks up and nods; she’s ready to let him leave. A soft smile rests on his lips as he turns to walk out of the room. 

 

Margo makes her way over to the stone tub and sits on the edge, turning the knobs to begin drawing the bath. Still a little trapped in her haze, the crash of water against stone is loud and grating, a far cry from the soothing hum it used to be. Eliot reappears in the doorway, holding a glass and a bottle of shampoo, wondering whose room he raided, she can’t help but laugh. As the water continues to fill the tub, the sound softens, providing a little more comfort than before. Margo rises to her feet and tries to unclasp her dress behind her back. 

 

“Here,” Eliot says, walking over to her. Bringing his hands to her shoulders, he brushes some of the dirt off her and unhooks the clasp. He slides the zipper down and pushes the fabric off her body, moving back to allow her to step out of the garment now surrounding her feet. She walks over to the tub and turns the water off. Eliot continues to undress as Margo slips into the tub. 

 

The hot water is  soothing to her sore muscles. Dirt and grime cloud the water slightly as she submerges herself. Taking a deep breath, she dips all the way beneath the surface, closing her eye. It is calm and still beneath the water; she wonders for a moment if this is what Jane feels like. When she resurfaces, the room is dark and Eliot slips into the tub behind her. The moment her skin is flush with his, Margo sighs and allows herself to relax a little. 

 

Feeling her relax in his arms, Eliot hums and begins to slowly trace his fingers along her skin. “I gave up on the lighting situation,” he says next to her ear. “Figured you’d prefer dark over that garish light.”

 

“At this point, it almost doesn’t matter,” her tone is flat and heavy with exhaustion. 

 

Eliot slides back so he can knead her shoulders. “Want to talk about it?” His hands are firm and hypnotic as he works the tension out of her. His fingers slip beneath the strap of her wet eyepatch, lifting it gently off her face. Having long grown comfortable with her eyelessness, she doesn’t flinch at the exposure of the empty socket. Eliot’s fingers thread into her hair and scratch softly at her scalp. Closing her remaining eye, she hums at the soothing touch. 

 

“Fillory can choke,” is all she can manage between the exhaustion and the mesmerizing strokes of Eliot’s fingers against her scalp. Eliot nods with a deep sigh of agreement, and nudges her to sit forward. 

 

Eliot gathers her hair up in his hands, then releases it, the weight of the water pulling it far down her back. He reaches for the bottle of shampoo, nearly dropping it into the tub as it slips through his wet fingers. Pouring a generous amount of shampoo into his hands, Eliot slowly rubs them together, working the soap into a thick lather. Artificial pineapple and coconut fill the room in a scent that is so distinctly from earth; it’s strange, almost foreign, further emphasizing that ‘home’ was never a place for them. He strokes her hair softly with soap covered hands, coating the surface. Working his way to the ends, he ensures he’s covered every inch in shampoo. Adding another generous amount to his hands, he lathers it into her scalp. Eliot’s large hands massage the entirely of her scalp in languid spirals. She moans softly, allowing her head and shoulders to slump forward as he continues to work the shampoo into her hair. She is so fucking tired. Taking the length of her hair into his hands, Eliot folds it onto the top of her head and applies more shampoo. Thick, frothy soap lathers up, creating a nearly comedic amount of bubbles and foam as his fingers massage her scalp; he’s determined to eliminate the putrid reminder of her quest.

 

Quiet humming reaches her ears; she can’t name the song, but the melody is so familiar that she could hum along if she had the energy . Eliot’s hands slip down her neck and onto her shoulders where they massage deep, firm pressure. The knots in her muscles begin to loosen and relax beneath his hands and she releases a deep breath she’s been holding for who knows how long. Eliot’s hands slide down her arms and into the water, rinsing the shampoo away before he reaches for the glass. 

 

The humming stops and Eliot speaks quietly, “Lean back.” Margo tilts her head back, flinging some airy shampoo bubbles against Eliot’s chest. Dipping the glass beneath the water with one hand, he brings the other to her hairline to shield her face. He pours the water onto her her scalp and down her hair, rinsing the soap away. The water feels so much hotter against her head than it does surrounding her body. Another cup of water runs over her hair and down her back, followed by Eliot’s fingers combing through the strands. Wishing he could wash her problems away as easily as the water carries the shampoo off her hair, she sighs. She’ll never say it, but she swears she can still feel Prince Micah’s blood splattered across her face, almost burning her skin. Eliot gathers her hair behind her back, combing through it with his fingers before splitting it and laying each chunk over one of her shoulders. He drops his arms into the water and pulls her into him. 

 

Running his hands down her arms, he interlocks his fingers with hers, and takes a deep breath. She’s starting to get drowsy; the beating of his heart, the rise and fall of his chest are the most effective sleep aid she’s ever known. When he opens his mouth, she expects him to speak, but she is met instead with song. The melody from before reaches her ears, this time ringing out from his mouth, instead of trapped behind his lips in a hum.

 

Eliot sings the melody slow with the weight of a threnody and the gentleness of a lullaby. “Black is the color,” he draws out the word, allowing the pitch to ring out around them. “Of my true love's hair.” The vibrations travel through their bodies, skin to skin, the acoustics in the bathroom are perfect; Margo sighs, allowing herself to lean into the soothing thrum. “Her face so soft and wondrous fair,” he nuzzles his nose against her cheek as the traditional melody leaves his lips. Eliot takes a deep breath, filling his lungs to prepare for the next notes, the movement rocks Margo deeper into drowsiness. “The purest eye,” the notes ring high and clear throughout the room, the vibrations trembling through their skin.  His range is vast and gorgeous. Margo chuckles softly at the lyrical adjustment as the thick vibrato of his voice reverberates off the stone and porcelain surrounding them. “And the strongest hands,” he sings, tightening his grip on her hands. She sighs softly as the pitches drop low and deep in his chest. The use of the masculine variation of the lyrics is more habitual than deliberate, but she can’t help but appreciate them. This version has always been far more fitting;  there is nothing gentle about her.  “I love the ground whereon she stands.” As the words leave him, Eliot slides a leg between Margo’s, knotting them together. Their heights are way too different for him to consider touching her feet to emphasize the lyrics. “I love the ground whereon she stands,” he repeats, this time dropping his pitch low. The deep rumble undulates  strongly against her skin. She finally allows her eye to fall closed. The call of sleep is growing stronger than her desire to remain awake. “Black is the color of my true love’s hair.” 

 

Margo releases a deep breath. The steady, rhythmic beating of Eliot’s heart lulls her to sleep. Everything goes back. The water flows around them as Eliot gently holds her in his arms. Eliot sighs, allowing himself to doze off as well. Fillory can wait a few hours. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ **The song Eliot sings to Margo in this chapter** ](https://youtu.be/3oc1XuqzyGs)


	9. The Fillorian Candidate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot helps Margo prepare to take the throne as High King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, the final chapter. Thank you so much for coming on this Journey™️ with me. It truly means the world. This piece means so much to me and I hope you’ve enjoyed every bit of it. This chapter is perhaps one of my favorite things I’ve ever written in my life. Eliot just kinda showed up, took my hand, and showed me what he needed to convey and it was so breathtaking to me.

“Oh my god,” Eliot says, not caring to mask his glee. “You’re nervous!” his hand tightens around Margo’s thigh beneath the soapy water, stilling it’s rapid fidgeting. She tenses against him slightly, releasing a sharp exhale before relaxing back into his touch. 

 

Margo leans back, resting her head in the crook of his neck; her messy topknot tickling Eliot’s face as she settles. “More like still processing,” she says. “I mean, come on, a bunch of human-horny animals voted me into an office I wasn’t even running for.” A soft apology still hangs in her voice; the last thing she wants is for Eliot to think she took this from him. 

 

Eliot brings his other hand beneath the water to wrap around Margo’s waist. “Don’t start acting like you haven’t been doing the job since we got here.” The last knot of tension in her body falls away at his words. Pulling her close, Eliot places a soft kiss to her temple. “You’re already a great King, Bambi.” 

 

“Thank you,” she says. She has always known  this . Fillory is her kingdom and she has worked hard to ensure that. It’s nice to see everyone else finally recognize that fact, though she’s still having mixed feelings on the wild stroke of fate it took to get them there. 

 

Eliot strokes soft circles along her thigh, the magic-less Fillorian water is much harsher than the magically enhanced bubble filled baths of their time at Brakebills. “You’re allowed to be excited,” he says against her temple. “Not that you’ve ever needed permission for anything.” They share a small laugh. Eliot nudges her forward by the waist. Taking his suggestion, she scoots forward just enough so he can bring his hands to her shoulders. “It reminds me of the first Welters tournament you ever won,” he says softly and she’s not sure what he means. His fingers press slow, deep pressure into her shoulders. The deliberate work of his fingers melts the tension in her body with each pass; if she didn’t know what magic felt like, she would swear this was it. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that much joy in your eyes,” he stammers a bit on the last word, unsure of if he should correct himself. Margo presses her shoulders back into him, and he takes it as both an acknowledgment of his apology and encouragement to continue. 

 

Eliot slides his hands lower so he can focus the pressure behind her shoulder blades. The roughness of his hands mixed with the firm pressure of his thumbs pinch at the knots in her muscles. How long have they been hurting like this? She groans, but the tension releases before she can complain too much, melting her objection into a soft moan. “You have fought for this kingdom from day one,” he says before kissing the top of her head, silently thanking her for allowing him to ease her pain. “I spent half of my time as King trying to produce champagne,” he says, awkwardly laughing off his feelings of incompetence. 

 

“Hey, it kept you from waging war on a neighboring kingdom.” She reassures him the best way she knows how, by exposing her own flaws; their faults don’t seem nearly as glaring when they carry them together. The strokes of Eliot’s hands have become more casual than deliberate, so Margo leans back against his chest once more.

 

“Ess was being a brat, you totally get a pass,” he says, voice somewhere between genuine and playful banter. “Even Idri thinks he’s over dramatic.” 

 

Margo wants to ask Eliot for the dirty details of their little tussle on the Muntjac, but she knows that’s still a sore spot for him. She links her hand into his, allowing her water-wrinkled fingertips to to trace soothing shapes along his knuckles. Suddenly aware of just how long they’ve been in the bath, she whines, cursing the fact that she has so much to do to get ready. If she doesn’t get out of the tub now, she’ll fall asleep. Not a good look for the new High King. 

 

Margo drops Eliot’s hand and gives him two quick taps on his thigh, signaling that she is ready to get out of the bath. Margo hoists herself out of the tub, the soft patter of wet feet hitting stone echos surprisingly loudly off the castle walls. Eliot climbs out of the tub with a loud slosh and grabs his towel. He pats himself dry, and wraps the towel around his waist. Across the room, Margo is taking a particularly plush towel to her legs, wiping away the reminders of their bath that have beaded up on her skin. Eliot walks up behind her. Once she’s brought her towel up to her back, he slips his fingers between hers, gently taking the towel from her grasp. He buries his fingers into the towel, allowing it to fold over his hands and he runs it up her back. He dries her off with broad, circular strokes. When he’s done, he wraps the towel around her shoulders and pulls her into a brief embrace. She sighs at the familiar comfort; she has missed this so much. 

 

“Do you know what you’re wearing?” he asks as Margo steps out of his arms. He cocks an eyebrow as Margo walks to the corner opposite where her gowns are laid out. 

 

Margo grabs a taco from a table he didn’t even notice until now and laughs. Did she really grab tacos before leaving the Muntjac? He raises both brows, questioning her. She shrugs him off, unbothered by his playful antics, before taking a bite. “I’ve narrowed it down to two options, but I’m not sure which one will have the most impact,” she says, not bothering to cover her full mouth. 

 

“I’m thinking this one,” Eliot says, lightly stroking a burgundy toile gown with stunning gold embellishments. Beside it rests an intricate eyepatch made of the same pleated fabric. “You have such gorgeous shoulders, I don’t know why you always cover them up,” Eliot muses, though he's fairly certain he knows the answer. Margo takes another bite of her taco instead of admitting out loud that she still feels the need to be broader, to take up more physical space. She knows this world isn’t built for someone like her to be in charge, so she tries to approximate the shape of someone they expect to lead them. “Imagine the scandal: High King flaunts shoulders for all to see. Have the sex crazed children of earth finally snapped?” he says in his best newscaster voice. She bursts into laughter at his words. 

 

“That one it is,” she says with a smile. 

 

Eliot picks up the garment and unfastens the zipper, careful not to wrinkle any of the delicate pleats or ornamentations. Gown thrown over one arm, Eliot comes up behind Margo and takes the towel off her shoulders and tosses it at the foot of the tub. Margo looks over her shoulder to watch where it lands. Eliot takes the opportunity to twirl his free finger, asking her to turn and face him. Margo stretches her arms high over her head, feigning a sigh at the sweet release of the movement. She turns dramatically with a sway of her hips. She laughs knowing that their intimate familiarity and Eliot’s overwhelming preference for men keep his jaw from dropping at her display. He waits for her to finish being dramatic, holding the dress open for whenever she's ready to step into it. 

 

Margo rolls her eye at his unwillingness to play along. Grabbing his wrists for support, she steps into the gown, careful not to put any weight on it in fear of damaging the delicate embellishments. She brings her hand to her breast, holding the gown in place as she spins around. Eliot pulls the zipper closed in a careful, swift movement. Once the gown is in place, Margo grabs the gold straps at the neck and holds them behind her head for Eliot. He fastens the clasp at the nape of her neck. 

 

“Taco me,” he says, leaning down a bit. Margo rolls her eye, and stifles a laugh as she brings the half-eaten taco to his lips. The crunch of the shell is uncomfortably loud this close to her ear. 

 

“If you want more, you can grab your own. This is the closest I’ve been to eating snatch in forever, you’re not taking it from me.” 

 

Eliot laughs so hard, he has to cover his mouth to keep from spitting out his mouthful of food. How she can manage to be both so classy and hilariously crass is beyond him. He walks back over to where her gowns were laid out and picks up the eyepatch; he makes a pitstop by the sink to grab her hairbrush before returning to her. She turns her head, expecting to see him munching on a taco of his own. Her smug demeanor quickly melts as she catches sight of what’s in his hands. 

 

“Don’t fuss, it’s your big day,” he says as he lifts her eyepatch off her head. “You deserve it.” He pulls the elastic from her hair, and long, chestnut locks spiral down around her shoulders. He takes the brush to the top of her head, pulling it down through her hair in slow strokes. The bristles if the brush tickle the skin of her shoulders on the way down. As he nears the ends of her hair, he grabs it in his hands and pulls the brush the rest of the way though, so as not to snag her gown. He runs the brush through her hair a few more times until it lies flat and pristine down the length of her back. Margo finishes the last bite of her taco and wipes her hands against each other before turning around to face him. 

 

Eliot sets the brush down, and slides the eyepatch off his wrist. Gently, he takes Margo’s face in his hands and tips her chin up to get a better view. He stretches the elastic of the eyepatch wide enough to accommodate her head and slips it onto her. Pulling the intricate burgundy patch over her eye socket, he settles the strap over her other eyebrow and around her ears. While he reaches for the hair brush, Margo adjusts the eyepatch for comfort. Eliot quickly runs the brush through her hair again to push down the stray hair that was rustled up by the eyepatch. 

 

He places the brush back down, exchanging it for the crown that has rested upon his head almost since he first arrived in Fillory. He has spent so long torn between trying to fit into it and desperately trying to find his way out of it that it still twists his heart into confusion to look at it. He has only just now reached the point where he sees it as a part of who and what he is. With a deep sigh, he takes one final look at it in the candlelight and mentally wills himself to place it atop her head instead of on his own. He settles the stone encrusted crown so that it sits behind her ears, encircling her face in an a way that is reminiscent of halos in old paintings. He laughs at the irony, before whispering, “Truly divine,” under his breath. A devilish smile spreads across her lips, but she doesn’t acknowledge it further. Even with the crown being a bit large on her small frame, it still manages to look as though it was made for her. His eyes start to well up as he takes her in; the beauty of her face, of this moment, is so overwhelming it nearly hurts.

 

“How is it that you manage to make  _ all _ my clothes look better on you?” he asks, trying hard to banter through the emotions. 

 

She beams up at him, placing a consoling hand on his bare chest. “Face it El, I’m hotter than you,” she says with a smirk. She walks away from him, more for dramatic effect than out of necessity. 

 

He catches her arm in his grip before she gets too far away. “Ah, so that’s how you won the election?” he quips back. 

 

“No, I won the election because I gave Humbledrum the ride of his life!”

 

“I should’ve known all that talk of horse fucking would escalate to this.” They erupt into a boisterous fit of laughter, and Eliot pulls her into a quick embrace. As they pull apart, he takes her face into his hands. He gives her a soft smile before bringing his lips to her forehead. Her eye falls closed as his chin settles against the bridge of her nose. They both release a heavy breath as Eliot allows his hands to fall from her face. His nose briefly nuzzles at the top of her head as they linger. 

 

Once they’re ready to part from their embrace, Eliot takes a large step back. Margo cocks an eyebrow in confusion, but watches silently. Taking a step back with his right foot, Eliot allows his arm to wrap around his waist. He bends forward in a deep bow. Margo chuckles, as she does every time he makes this particular theatrical gesture. “Your Majesty,” He looks up at her before returning to his original position. “You have a kingdom to receive.” 

 

Smiling at Eliot, Margo walks out of the bath chamber, leaving him to get dressed. He marvels at just how far she's come since they arrived. He’s so proud of her. He’s proud of her for winning this election and taking back the throne, and he’s proud of her for facing that kingdom as she is, bare shoulders and all. If anyone knows the sanctity of her skin, it’s Eliot. Simultaneously something delicate she protects and an overwhelming power she blesses you with when she chooses. He has been blessed to call both home for longer than he deserves. He can’t help but smile as she walks out the door to bless the kingdom with her majesty. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for everything. If you enjoyed this, please let me know in the comments. 
> 
> Also keep an eye on my tumblr (OneEyedDestroyer) for a little supplemental treat!  
> Xx V


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